Safe and Sound
by butterfly-truths
Summary: Matthew had made a promise to himself to never set another fire again. He could never bring himself to possibly cause the death of another nation. This was different though. He was righting a wrong, finishing what he had begun two hundred years ago. He was tired. So very tired. Sequel to To You Whom I Once Called Brother


**Warnings** : major character death via suicide

Safe and Sound

Matthew was tired.

So _very_ tired.

It sat heavy in his bones, made it difficult to breathe, to think, to do anything really.

It was only by imagining the worried faces of the few nations he cared about if he were absent that Matthew found the strength to pull himself out of bed, but even that was becoming less and less motivating as the years passed. Did anyone even notice him when he came in? Did they even care if he didn't show up? They rarely asked for his contributions and more or less forgot about his existence even when he was there, so would his appearance even matter?

Besides France, England, and Russia- did anyone else even know that he existed?

When he wasn't meeting with nations it was the anxiety induced from the thought of the stack of papers on his desk that drove Matthew out of his house. They never remembered his name, but god forbid it if Matthew was one day late looking over useless documents that anybody else could handle.

Matthew sighed and turned his chair away from the paperwork to look out over the pieces of Ottawa that he could see from his window. He watched idly as a couple embraced, smiling at each other as they spoke about things Matthew couldn't hear before leaving hand in hand.

He wondered what it was like to smile like that, to feel happiness. It had been so long since he had felt anything akin to happiness, his world a dull grey.

What he could remember of a world of color- _golden honey hair, breathtaking robin blue eyes, blinding white smiles, ashen skin, red so much red, too much red, oh god it was everywhere please God please no_ -he chose not to think about.

He had eventually stopped eating as well. His food tasted like ash in his mouth, would only stay down for an hour at most before coming back up with a vengeance, so Matthew had simply stopped trying. He was using belts to keep his pants up, tucking his dress shirts in and trying not to let anyone notice how bony his wrists were becoming because he was polite, and he didn't want to bother anyone with this.

That was the crux of the problem wasn't it? That he was too polite?

Too polite to oust America, too polite to remind other nations that he existed, too polite to ask anyone for help.

Or maybe it was because he was too much of a coward.

Alfred hadn't been a coward. He had stood up to England when he was an Empire for God's sake. No, when things happened that he didn't like he stood up for himself and made sure that his voice was heard. Matthew had relied on his brother's loud voice when they were little, had depended on him to make sure that England remembered to include him as well. Alfred had been the only one to consistently remember Matthew, to try and make sure that he was recognized and cared for just like Alfred was.

Matthew had both loved and loathed his brother for it. Loved him for making sure he was acknowledged and hated him for feeling like Matthew couldn't stand up for himself.

 _Oh, but I stood up for myself alright… just not like how either of us had imagined._

Sometimes Matthew wondered where Alfred was now. Was there truly a heaven like the Bible claimed? Or perhaps he was reincarnated like the Buddhists believed? Maybe there wasn't an afterlife and you just faded into nothing, into a sea of blackness never to return. Matthew liked to think that Alfred was in a better place, wherever that place was. He deserved it, just like Matthew knew he deserved a little spot in Hell for himself.

Alfred had always been selfless, never thinking of himself first. If it wasn't Matthew he was looking after then it was England after he'd succumbed to the various injuries he had gathered abroad and collapsed on his desk, and if it wasn't him then he was out on the streets helping whoever he saw whether they asked for it or not. He'd fix roofs, help plow fields, carry heavy barrels off of ships- whatever he could do to lend a hand and make someone else's life a little bit easier.

From what he'd been told by Prussia, when he had mustered up the courage to ask, Alfred was always the one urging his men on during the Revolution, trying to keep morale up- giving soldiers his food and water even though he was starving and sleeping in the shabbiest tents in the camp so that someone else could get a good night's rest. He was just that kind of guy.

And Matthew had taken that all away in a fit of fury.

 _Matthew peeked inside the study room. Arthur had told them not to disturb him while he worked, but he had heard a heavy thunk a few minutes earlier come from the room and had grown curious. Alfred was already inside, trying to wrap one of Arthur's arms around his tiny shoulders. Arthur was out cold, but a pained groan here and a small whimper there told Matthew that he wasn't dead._

" _Alfred what are you doing?" Matthew hissed, scared to wake Arthur up and get yelled at for being somewhere he wasn't supposed to be._

" _Mattie!" Alfred exclaimed, looking up from his task to see his brother hiding by the doorway. "Come over here and help me! Artie's too heavy for me to move by myself!"_

" _Stop talking so loudly," Matthew scolded quietly, not moving from his spot. "Arthur will be mad if he finds us in here."_

" _Hm?" Alfred looked at Arthur and poked his cheek experimentally. Matthew let out a breath he didn't know he was holding when nothing happened._

" _See look it's fine," his brother assured him. "Now come over here and help me move him." Matthew gave their caretaker another wary glance before letting out a sigh and moving into the room until he was at his brother's side. Together they were able to drag Arthur out of his chair, his feet dragging on the ground behind them and his head hanging uselessly between them._

" _Where are we taking him?" Matthew murmured._

" _To his bed silly," Alfred replied, giving him a look that said he was an idiot. "He needs to rest and staying there would have made his neck hurt." Matthew didn't know if the position his neck was in now would hurt any less, but Alfred was decided, and when he was decided there was no changing his mind._

 _The trip to Arthur's bedroom was long and tedious, despite the fact that it was only two rooms down the hall. Matthew stubbed his toe and knocked his shoulder into the wall twice as they dragged Arthur's limp form down the hallway. Through some careful maneuvering they were able to open the door, and a little more allowed them to pull the older nation onto the bed._

 _Matthew stood to the side, trying to catch his breath, watching as Alfred took his shoes off one by one before loosening the tight cravat laced around his neck and then tucking the sheets in around him._

 _There was a certain spark in Alfred's eye that Matthew hadn't seen before, the way he cared for Arthur with small hands gently brushing straw blond hair out of his face, an exasperated frown playing with the edges of his lips and making Matthew think that this wasn't the first time Alfred has had to take on the role of caretaker. It was a side of him that he hadn't really observed up close before, but Matthew found that it oddly suited him- much more so than the boisterous and stubbornly demanding side that was normally on display._

" _You really love him, don't you?" Matthew asked faintly before he could think to stop. Alfred jerked slightly- startled eyes showing that he had all but forgotten about Matthew, wrapped up in his little world as he was, -but then he looked down at England and softly smiled at the unconscious man beneath him, one hand idly playing with a strand of hair._

" _Of course," he acknowledged. "He's family."_

 _He looked back and Matthew and the soft smile morphed into a full-blown grin._

" _Just like you Matthew!"_

"-atthew? Matthew!"

Matthew jolted in his seat, blinking as he was thrust out of the memory and back into reality, emerald green eyes staring at him with concern. It took him a moment to remember who they belonged.

"O-oh, England. What is it?" he inquired, trying to ignore the worry in his eyes.

"The meeting's over," England responded. "I was just finishing packing up and saw that you hadn't moved so I thought I'd make sure you were okay. You are okay… right Matthew?"

Matthew flushed red in embarrassment, he hadn't even noticed that the meeting was over, let alone that he had had a flashback from when he and Alfred had been just colonies under England's care. He had been having those more and more often- it used to be just when he was asleep but it was happening with increasing frequency when he was awake as well now. It was getting hard to tell reality from memory these days. He'd wondered if he was losing his mind, his own private civil war, but in the end it didn't seem to matter much- not when he could close his eyes and see those blue eyes again.

England's words struck something in him though.

"You… you remembered my name?" Matthew asked, hardly daring to believe it. Nobody ever called him by his human name anymore, then again nobody ever really saw him enough to use it anyways. England looked perplexed by the intensity of Matthew's gaze.

"Well yes, it is your name isn't it? Are you sure you're okay lad? You look a bit pale."

"N-no, no. I'm fine England. Really, I am," Matthew told him, adding on the last bit at the skepticism on England's face. He moved his hands so his wrists weren't showing.

"Well if you say so…" England looked conflicted, looking like he wanted to say something, but the moment passed and his expression smoothed out. "Just remember if you need anything I'm always here."

"I will," Matthew promised, yet the words sounded hollow even in his own ears.

"Well… carry on then," England said and with a clap on his back he was gone, leaving Matthew alone in the empty meeting room. Outside the doors Matthew could hear America and England arguing with each other over something that Matthew couldn't make out. Their voices were rising though, they were practically screaming at each other.

"How you ever turned out like this is beyond me!" he could hear England yell. "What _happened_ to my precious little colony! It's like he _died_ or something!" There was a moment of utter silence, Matthew's breath catching. No England couldn't know, he had never told him and there was no way America had said anything either. Yet the words still hurt. Oh how they burned.

"Me, die? That's ridiculous England," America shot back. "You just can't accept that your golden years are long behind you and that I'm more powerful than you ever could be!"

"Why you cheeky bastard!"

Their voices faded off as they took their argument elsewhere, but Matthew was still shaking in his seat.

" _You really love him, don't you?"_

" _What_ happened _to my little colony!"_

" _Of course. He's family."_

" _It's like he_ died _or something!"_

" _Just like you Matthew!"_

"I'm sorry," Matthew whimpered, pulling in on himself. "I-I'm so sorry."

He couldn't take it anymore.

He couldn't keep lying anymore.

He could only hope his family would forgive him someday.

…

He had written a letter.

Several in fact, each addressed to nations that had been close to Alfred at some point before his death. England, France, Prussia, Spain, Mexico, hell he had even sent one off to Russia. They deserved to know after all. Deserved to finally know the truth.

He had sent America a letter as well, explaining that he would no longer keep his secret. He refused to continue this charade they had unconsciously decided upon any longer. He didn't know what the superpower's reaction would be, but the letters were already in motion and there was nothing he could do to stop them from reaching their intended recipients.

Now there was only one thing left for Matthew to do.

Matthew had made a promise to himself to never set another fire again. After Alfred he could never bring himself to possibly cause the death of another nation. This was different though. He was righting a wrong, finishing what he had begun two hundred years ago.

He had made sure that nobody was in the building when he had set the fire, he didn't want anyone else getting hurt because of him. The smoke alarms had all been deactivated to allow the fire plenty of time to spread before anyone arrived at the scene. It was eerie watching his Parliament once again burn to the ground, watching the dark smoke billow out from blown-out windows and flames greedily lick at the wood.

He had sworn to himself that he would never allow someone to do this to him again and the irony of his actions was not lost on him as he limped away from the scene, trying to hold in the pain and hide the growing red stain blossoming across his chest as fire trucks screamed past him and panicked humans ran away in fear.

His house was empty when he finally got back to it. Kumajiro, perhaps sensing his owners intentions, had disappeared over a week ago and Matthew didn't think he'd be returning again. That was fine with him though, he didn't want the polar bear to see what he was about to do, didn't want his last memories of Matthew to be stained red.

Two letters rested on his desk in his study, one explaining his actions should anyone find his body before it disappeared.

The other for the personification that would surely take his place as America had taken Alfred's. He asked that he or she took care of their people, that they were now responsible for the lives of thousands and to cherish their role and take pride in it. He told them to make sure they stood up for themselves, that they shouldn't let the other nations bully them into silence. He asked that they take care of Kumajiro if he ever returned, but above all he asked them not to make the same mistake he had. That they should never take their bonds with others for granted and to never act when they were not in their right mind, or else the regret would eat them alive as his surely had.

He didn't use a gun. A gun was too modern, too impersonal. He didn't hang himself or try to drown himself or cut his wrists. He and Alfred had been brothers; two sides of the same coin . What happened to one always happened to the other.

It was only fitting that their deaths should be the same as well.

This time, he didn't heal, his skin didn't magically knit itself back together before his very eyes, his body didn't regenerate itself. Instead he watched, transfixed, as the blood kept escaping, an ever growing puddle of dark red forming around him. He should have been scared by the sight of so much blood and the knowledge that it was coming from him, should have felt the need to puke as he felt the air touch his exposed organs, yet he didn't. Instead a strange peace swept over him, numbed him to the pain and left him floating.

It was odd, dying. As a nation he had died before, but it had never felt quite like this; more like he was taking a long nap before waking back up again. This held more finality though, the knowledge that this time when Matthew closed his eyes he wouldn't be waking up again.

He hoped that he'd see Alfred again, as ludicrous as the thought was. He may not know what rested beyond this world of theirs, but he knew that no matter how long he had spent trying to atone for his sins that he would never be able to go where Alfred had went.

His last thought was of golden honey and endless blue before everything went black.

…

The carriage ride had been long and awkward. Not a word had been spoken between the two; after one or two attempts on England's part to get Matthew to speak he had given up and had instead chosen to take a nap. Matthew was staring out the paned glass at the land around them, so similar to his own yet different somehow. He wondered what his brother was like now. England had referred to someone by the name of Alfred several times, so perhaps that was his new name. Just like his new name was Matthew now.

He preferred his old name, had liked the way it rolled off of Francis's lips when he had called to him, had liked how Francis had whispered it in his ear when he was wishing him a good night.

Why did Francis have to give him away?

The memory of their separation- Matthew crying as England tugged on his hand, tugged him away from Francis, screaming at Francis to stop this, to tell England to let him go, why wasn't he stopping him _why why why_ -still caused his eyes to burn as he fought back tears.

The house they were brought to was surprisingly modest for what Matthew was expecting. He had been envisioning something along the lines of a castle to fit with the Empire's persona, not a quaint little colonial with a small garden in the front. The jolt from the carriage suddenly stopping roused England, and before Matthew knew it they were standing outside the front door.

As England fumbled with his ring of keys for the correct one, Matthew heard what sounded like a stampeding bull rumbling from inside the household.

A moment later the door was flung nearly off its hinges as a small blond blur rocketed into England with a cry of "Arthur you're home!"

England caught him easily enough, a gentle smile gracing his features. "Hello there poppet. I've brought someone along who I think you'd like to meet." They turned around and Matthew's gaze was met by the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

"Alfred, this is Matthew," England informed him. "He's your brother."

Alfred seemed to stare Matthew down and the young colony shrunk in on himself under his brother's scrutinizing gaze. Squirming out of England's grasp he came over and surprised Matthew by tackling him with a hug.

" _Mon dieu_ ," Matthew squeaked, the sudden embrace unbalancing him and causing the two of them to fall over onto the ground.

"I missed you," Alfred whispered, the words spoken in garbled French, and Matthew felt himself freeze up. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around Alfred and held him tight against his chest.

" _Tu m'as manqué aussi._ "


End file.
